WIN ATRIP FOR 2 TO TREK THE INCA TRAIL IN SOUTH AMERICA! FROM INTREPID TRAVEL
WORLDWIDE 2007/8
INCLUDED ISSUE #15 $6.95 >GST
TRAVEL CULTURE
CHINA GREAT WALL OF SOUND NORWAY POLAR BEARS ONICE
PERU ALMIGHTY AMAZON PHILIPPINES ISLAND INTERLOPER SOUTHERN AFRICA FLYING HIGH ISSN 1449-3543
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ALASKA: HELL OF A SKI TASMANIA: AN UNDERWATER ODYSSEY UNITED ARAB EMIRATES: 24 HOURS IN THE REAL DUBAI
THE
CHASING WHITE
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get in the know! Polar bears are nearly invisible under infrared photography – only their breath and muzzles can be seen.
svalbard
text: steve davey images: steve davey
MONSTER If you think that Europe is dull and that you have to head to Africa, Asia or South America for adventurous travel or unspoilt landscapes then think again.
get in the know! Polar bears, insulated by a thick undercoat, overheat at temperatures over 10ºC.
U
P IN THE EUROPEAN HIGH ARCTIC LIES A snowy wasteland where in the long dark winters the sun never makes it above the horizon. It is a land prowled by the polar bear, one of the most fearsome predators to walk the earth, and if you set foot out of the main settlement you will have to be escorted by armed guards. The archipelago of Svalbard lies off the coast of Norway, and the best way to explore it is on a cruise. Now the word ‘cruise’ normally strikes fear into my heart and conjures up images of great mega-liners ferrying hundreds, if not thousands, of people around some of the more unspoilt regions of the world. ‘Cruise’ also brings up images of bingo, of cheesy cabaret shows and hordes of octogenarian Americans with external plumbing. This adventure could not be further from this. The ship only berths around a hundred people, so it never feels crowded. Officially it is an expedition vessel, which means that it carries a fleet of inflatable Zodiac boats for landings and excursions. It is also certified as an ice breaker, which means it can travel through the ice flow. There are many ships in the region that have to turn tail at the first sight of ice – making polar bear sightings far less likely. As it is an expedition vessel she also has a full complement of naturalists and explorers. They give lectures, pilot the Zodiacs and lead the onshore landings. They are also the ones who carry the guns to defend you from any roving polar bears who might turn up, so it is worth keeping on their good side. Our first sighting of a polar bear is less than auspicious: cruising through broken pack ice at a slow speed, we spot a lone male asleep on an ice flow, with his head lying on a large pile of snow like a pillow. He doesn’t stir as we chug closer, then when it seems impossible that he hasn’t heard us he looks over his shoulder and does a classic double take. His head drops back down sleepily, then shoots back up in surprise as his brain registers the shock of seeing a large red ship steaming towards him. He jumps up and flees across the ice, jumps in ISSUE #15 get lost! #53
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Walruses are strange beasts: large and excessively fat they haul out on the ice flows in garrulous, and somewhat stinky groups. Fights break out with immediate aggression before quickly dissipating.
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the sea, swims thirty seconds to the next ice flow, hauls himself up, runs across it and jumps into the sea again. He barely looks back at the ship as he disappears across the broken pack ice. That night in the bar the feeling is somewhat deflated. Sure we have seen our first polar bear, but the fabled ‘white monster’ didn’t seem quite so big or scary! Our next polar bear sighting is far more exciting. Everyone is called up on deck by the captain from the bridge, as he spots a mother and two cubs out on the ice. They are still some way off, but moving towards the ship steadily. Unlike the first bear, they don’t seem bothered by the ship – in fact, they are walking straight towards us sniffing out of curiosity. The captain cuts the engines of the ship and we drift forwards slowly towards a large ice flow. The three bears are on the other side of the ice flow walking towards us. They seem slightly unsettled, but more through curiosity than fear. They are calling to each other – a strange and hauntingly querulous bellow that none of the expert naturalists have heard before.
They are as excited as the rest of us. The ship bumps softly sideways into the ice flow and stops. The bears are still approaching. One of the youngsters keeps standing on its back legs to get a better view. It couldn’t look more cute if it tried. Its mother looks massive. She stands on a large lump of ice and snow not more than twenty feet from the ship and looks at us inquisitively. She seems to decide that we are no threat to them. This close it is possible to make out the massive front paws and the vicious claws that she uses to stun seals before moving in for the kill. The bears are with us for almost half an hour before they start to move away, still bellowing to each other. The next day we are even luckier, and spot a mother with three young cubs on the ice. This is tremendously rare, and as the cubs are so small they are much less sure of themselves and follow their mother away from the ship. They are still pretty close though and look remarkably cute, although I am informed that even at this age they would still probably attack a human if they had the chance. The mother would certainly attack without a second’s hesitation to protect her young. The bears head from ice flow to ice flow, swimming in between. As they get back on to each ice flow, the mother rolls on her
get in the know! A 2004 study found that polar bears, on average, weighed 12 percent less than in the 1970s.
svalbard
back to push the water from her fur to preserve her body temperature. The cubs follow suit. It is saddening to realise that the chances of all of these three cubs surviving is virtually nil. As the mother and cubs swim off one of the cubs is actually hitching a ride on her back, half out of the water and looking around smugly. I get the distinct feeling that this will definitely be one of the cubs who do make it. Svalbard consists of a number of islands. Most of them are uninhabited but there are a couple of settlements on the main island, Spitsbergen, including the enigmatic town of Longyearbyen. The west side of Svalbard is influenced by the Gulf Stream and so does not experience as much ice – especially in the summertime. Off the east side of Spitsbergen lie the islands of Barentsoya, Edgeoya and Nordauslandet across the Hinlopen Strait. This area is shielded from the Gulf Stream and so far has more ice and therefore many more polar bears who hunt out on the pack ice. This is an expedition, not a tour, which means that there is no fixed schedule and the boat is effectively free to go wherever it wants. Captain Heslop fits the bill for an expedition captain perfectly. Not only is he an adventurous and dedicated captain with
get in the know! The largest polar bear on record weighed 580kg.
an apparent flair for piloting a path through the ice, but his captain’s briefings are more like stand-up comedy routines. This can be useful, as there are long hours of steaming through pack ice with little or nothing (but endless ice) to see. This is accentuated by the fact that the sun never slips below the horizon during the short Arctic summer, and during the midnight sun days literally do drag on for ever. Luckily the ship’s bar is open until the last person goes to bed, which with 24 hours of sunrise can be quite early in the morning. Fortunately the bar doesn’t run on Norwegian prices, which are amongst the most expensive in Europe. It is difficult to know when to stop drinking when it never gets dark. Most nights when he has finished driving the ship or doing ‘captain things’, Captain Heslop comes down to the bar for a nightcap and to socialise with us dark-starved drunks. He tries a number of times to explain to me exactly what the captain does, as well as the difference between a ship and a boat, but I never quite manage to grasp it – certainly not after a night in the bar. One of the most amazing things about the midnight sun is that it is always possible to go up
on deck and just look at the scenery, and I often find myself up there at three or four in the morning. I never tire of this – especially on the east side of Svalbard where there is a lot more ice. Another factor keeping me on deck is the fact that I am in one of the cheaper, lower cabins. The sea level is just a few inches below the level of the porthole, and in rough water often washes right over it. Needless to say the window doesn’t open and I prefer to be above deck in the fresh air. As we made the crossing from the mainland of Norway to Svalbard past the atmospherically misty Bear Island (of Alistair MacLean fame) the seas were so rough that my porthole seemed to be under the water most of the time. I don’t normally get seasick, but the combination of a rather ambitious breakfast and particularly rough seas was just too much for me. For three days after this we try to make our way north in an attempt to circumnavigate the archipelago, and this results in some of our best wildlife sightings. The polar bear isn’t the only large mammal. We come across a number of walruses and even have whale sightings. Walruses are strange beasts: large and excessively fat, they haul out on the ice flows in garrulous and somewhat stinky groups. Fights break out with
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get in the know! While Ernest Hemingway wrote For Whom the Bell Tolls in Havana, he regularly frequented La Bodeguita del Medio, the bar known as the home of the mojito.
cuba
text: gabrielle nancarrow images: gabrielle nancarrow
After Gabrielle Nancarrow’s life flashed before her eyes on a rickety aircraft, she contemplates what the lives of locals in a post-Castro Cuba might be like.
O
UR PLANE IS STRAIGHT OUT OF THE 1950S. Sitting in a bar in Cancún International Airport, we gaze over at the classic creation that is Cubana Flight 111 and wonder if flying Mexicana would have been a better option. Stubbornly stalled on the tarmac for the past seven hours, the plane is being worked on by one man with what appears to be a screwdriver. As our aircraft finally roars into life and takes off down the runway, smoke starts filling the cabin. When I realise it’s not coming from the lit cigar of the passenger in front of me, I start to panic. We take off anyway. Whatever the problem was, it has apparently not been fixed. Thankful for the calm that comes from an afternoon of drinking, I relax into the carpeted seats, release the tight grip on my boyfriend’s arm and watch as the clouds of smoke finally begin to disappear somewhere over the Caribbean Sea between Mexico’s Yucatán Peninsula and Fidel Castro’s Cuba.
get in the know! Although Cuban cigars are perceived as being the world’s best, some experts believe cigars from Honduras and Nicaragua rival them.
Cuba is a country of contrasts. The first and third worlds coexist in seeming contradiction and crumbling houses harbour some of the world’s most educated individuals. Since Fidel and his men gained full control of the country in 1959, the United States has placed strict embargoes on the nation, stifling its economic growth and development. As a result, Cuba is stuck in a glorious time warp, largely unchanged since the revolution. Cities are teeming with vintage cars, dilapidated architectural triumphs, colonial hotels and billboards shouting revolutionary slogans. But it is the Cubans themselves who are the most fascinating. Proud, educated, friendly and generous, their stories and experiences living under Castro’s regime are what make our journey through this incredible country. Flight 111 makes it back to earth, although the suspicious smoke returns when the plane prepares to land. Still shaking from the flight we hail a 1950s ISSUE #15 get lost! #59
Chevrolet taxi for the ride into Havana from José Martí International Airport. Driving into the city, the realities of Cuba under Castro are stark. The buildings all look like they are about to collapse (hundreds do so each year), the streets are dirty and stray dogs are ubiquitous; but the city is still beautiful. You forgive Havana for the dilapidation and the pollution as it becomes obvious that the city has much more to offer than it first seems. We arrive at our first casa particular (homestay) in the early evening and are herded in by a tribe of welcoming strangers who have taken a break from dancing in their kitchen. Casas, as they are known, are private homes owned by families who rent out their guest rooms to tourists for an additional source of income. It’s a great way to travel and allows for a privileged look into the private lives of Cubans. It is on our second day in Havana when we discover that good food, like an ATM, is hard to find, and the variety of cuisine is very limited. Restaurants are optimistic, handing out lengthy menus when all they have available is fried chicken, beans and rice. We begin to feel cheated that in a country as unique as Cuba, and in a city as culturally rich as Havana, the only thing available is fried chicken. Enlightenment strikes in the afternoon. Strolling out of the Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes and contemplating more fried chicken, we notice a long line of locals outside what looks to be a private home. Our introduction to the cultural phenomenon of ‘peso pizza’ saves us, and we live on it for the next two weeks.
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We are herded in by a tribe of welcoming strangers who have taken a break from dancing in their kitchen.
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Peso pizza is just one of the things you can buy off the street in Cuba using the Cuban peso. The country operates two types of currency, one supposedly for the locals, the Cuban peso, and the other for tourists, the Convertible Peso (CUC), which is equivalent to the US dollar and used in all ‘official’ stores. Government workers generally get paid in both pesos and convertible pesos but with salaries averaging US$20 a month, they can only really afford to shop from street vendors. This disparity between locals and tourists is confronting, a reminder of the global disparity between the haves and the have-nots that you notice most when travelling. As we head back to our casa, flying through the narrow streets on a three-wheeled Cocotaxi, the rhythmic beats of traditional songs vibrate from homes. The music washes down the narrow streets, carrying dancing families and friends who seem genuinely happy – if not ecstatic – with their #60 get lost! ISSUE #15
get in the know! Maria la Gorda (Fat Maria) Beach was named after a large Venezuelan woman who was abducted by pirates and abandoned in Cuba, where she became a prostitute.
cuba
“Pequeño” I stumble, apologetically. “Français?” he asks. Now that’s a little better. “Oui, je parle français,” I answer. It’s not every day that you meet a fluent French-speaking Cuban, but Pompii is full of surprises. “Ah bien! Bon...” And so he begins, nattering away in his second language like we are standing on the steps of Montmartre. But Pompii has not even been outside Trinidad, let alone Cuba, and his impeccable French was learnt for free down at the local library. It is a relief to finally converse with a local and understand every word. Each night, as he lays out our dinner in the courtyard, Pompii tells us about life in Cuba. He explains that while he is content with his life, he is getting more anxious by the day about what might happen when Fidel is gone. He thinks Trinidad is a beautiful city but would like to explore both his country and the world, although he is worried about the consequences that might accompany this freedom.
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lot in life. After all, Cuba delivers what many other countries strive for: access to free education, healthcare and housing for all. Anyone who knows just a little about the country’s past and present, however, would know that not everyone shares this happiness. Nonetheless, we never once hear a bad word spoken about Castro. His ever-present force creates a mystifying, almost Big Brother-like world in Cuba that is at once fascinating and disturbing. Ana is the first person we meet in Trinidad, our first stop after Havana. A large women wearing too much black for the 35-degree day, she greets us at the door of her home with a tight, sweaty bear hug followed by a shake of the head. “Estamos completo!” she sings. So sorry that her home is full, Ana walks us across the cobblestoned streets to a friend’s casa, about one kilometre away. For US$20 a night, the place is perfect. Welcoming us into his home, Pompii, a small, hyperactive man in his mid-forties, asks if we speak Spanish.
Trinidad, a UNESCO World Heritage site since 1988, is located in the province of Sancti Spíritus in central Cuba and is a perfect city in which to wander. The streets are lined with brightly coloured homes, their open shutters revealing beautiful antique furniture inside. From Palacio Cantero near the town square, you can climb the bell tower for a panoramic view over Trinidad to Playa Ancon (Ancon Beach) in the south. The next day we decide to hire two of Pompii’s pre-1950s bicycles and ride the 16 kilometres to the beach, which takes about an hour (longer if the bike has brakes – ours don’t). The reward is a stunning stretch of white sand and clear, warm Caribbean water. Playa Ancon has a few small resorts dotted along the coastline but is refreshingly devoid of the large developments seen on other Caribbean islands. Back in town, Trinidad also boasts a vibrant nightlife and we spend our nights drinking long after the power has gone off
...we never once hear a bad word spoken about Castro. His ever-present force creates a mystifying, almost Big Brother-like world in Cuba that is at once fascinating and disturbing.
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get in the know! “Che” is used in Argentina the way “man” or “mate” is in English. It also refers to someone from Argentina, which is how Argentinean-born Ernesto Guevara got his nickname.
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likea (spa)virgin text: oliver benjamin
image: andrew bennett
I
T WOULD SEEM THAT “TO BE TOUCHED” CAN mean to be emotionally moved, to be mildly crazy or even to be asked for a loan. As a successful man of business, people ask me for handouts all the time but the other possible meanings don’t really apply to me. My wife has grown physically distant and I’m too prim to go crazy. In fact, I rarely feel much at all. That was until recently, when a visit to a spa changed everything. Touched, I have been, in all senses of the word. On a recent stopover in Bangkok I was suffering from what some business travellers call “jet lag”. Aspirin didn’t seem to help so I asked my hotel’s concierge if she could recommend something. Delighted, she escorted me to the in-house spa, something I’d seen a lot of in my recent travels but always presumed a bit frivolous. Still, I had nothing to lose. Or so I thought. At first I was bewildered by the array of treatments available. Did I want a caviar facial or a chocolate rub? No, I told her, I had already eaten on the plane, but she giggled and assured me that all this food would be massaged into my skin. As I have a great fear of all things messy, I declined, but wondered if I might receive a more routine massage for my aching legs and lower back. This proved possible and I was ushered into a dim room. Plinky-plinky music played in the background and I was left to disrobe. Suddenly the reality of the situation hit me – some total stranger was going to place their paws on my exposed skin. It could be a big, hulking man or a lecherous old crone. I decided to cancel the session but before I could, a lovely young lady – let’s call her “Mia” – entered the room, bowed slightly and smiled. Returning the gesture, my defences were accidentally lowered. By which I mean that my towel came unfastened and fell to the ground. Poor Mia was presented with an ancient relic, unseen for years by anyone other than its owner. Frantically, I bent over to pick the towel up, but banged my head on the massage table and tumbled over onto my back. Mia could only recoil in what I assumed was horror. But then she did something quite extraordinary: she laughed! Her lighthearted response put me at ease – especially when she said that this was not the first time such a thing had occurred. Mia was either a very experienced
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masseuse or a courteous liar. With the benefit of hindsight, I now believe that she was both. Once I regained my bearings (and my drapings), Mia directed me onto the massage table and began to massage my feet. “Actually, the problem is in my legs”, I instructed her. “Shhh,” she replied, “your whole body is in your feet”. Having never heard of reflexology at that point, I thought that Mia meant to say “on your feet”. This made perfect sense. I shut up and Mia set to work salving my soles. Let me say this: if the spa ever went out of business, Mia could have easily found work securing confessions for her country’s secret police. She pressed my feet so hard it seemed she was trying to extract their very essential oil for bottling purposes. Tears poured down the sides of my face and my wailings could have brought anyone outside the closed door to believe some hankypanky was taking place. Either that or a murder. “You have some problems, I think?” she asked. “No”, I replied, firmly. My life was fine. I had everything I could want: money, marriage, kids, property. But she shook her head and repeated herself. My treacherous feet had apparently spilled the beans: I was a wreck. Defeated, one might say. “Don’t worry”, she promised, “I will help you”. Mia slowly worked her way up my legs pressing deeply into my flesh with her tiny palms. And then a warmth started to spread upwards throughout my body. I’m not convinced about chi, energy channels or meridian lines. I always regarded them as fancy terms for “good circulation”. But something was definitely happening that I could not explain. Tears began to run down my face again, though not from pain this time – rather from sheer, unbridled joy. Unfortunately something else also barged onto the scene at this point. Terrified that Mia might take offence at the stirring below my waist I thought very hard about stock market figures and purchase orders. I tried to turn over but with her full weight on my thigh I found I could not. And so, once again, the towel shifted improperly but this time Mia was not laughing. She stared at the terry-cloth tent as if it were a long-dead ghost
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Oliver Benjamin discovers a phrase that can mean much more than mere physical contact.
Terrified that Mia might take offence at the stirring below my waist I thought very hard about stock market figures and purchase orders.
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rising from the grave. “Sorry”, I said. “It happens”, Mia answered, pulling the towel more tightly around my waist. Embarrassment was once again averted by the patient and understanding mien of a kind woman who not only could understand a man’s pain, but read the creases between his toes. When it was all over, I felt like a new person. The pain in my legs was gone, along with, for the moment, a deeper and more chronic pain at the centre of my being. Also missing was a substantial amount of money from my wallet, as I felt compelled to tip Mia accordingly. As we parted ways, she shared some advice that I shall take to the grave. “Always make sure to wrap yourself securely”, she said. At first I thought she was talking about my towel, but I later realised she was being allegorical. Like a baby’s swaddling you must wrap yourself in the fuzzy, warm trappings of the things that secure you and not allow fleeting whims and worldly chaos to overcome you. Actually, now that I think about it further, Mia might have just been talking about towels.
get in the know! The term spa is thought to have originated the town of Spa in Belgium, where since medieval times illnesses were treated by drinking spring water.